


Shoot, My Son

by Futsin



Category: Laverne & Shirley (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Blackmail, Film Noir, Italian Mafia, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25997161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Futsin/pseuds/Futsin
Summary: After a successful ruse, Carmine Ragusa finds out it's not a good idea to impersonate the biggest mafioso boss in Milwaukee.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Shoot, My Son

**Author's Note:**

> And now for something more my style. A work in progress. Put on some Jerry Fielding, 70s John Barry, maybe some 50s jazz... and go with it.

Carmine was on his way to the dance studio when he saw the guy, a portly man with a bad combover and wearing a puffy jacket on a warm day, standing out from the crowd of other pedestrians. He was a block away from Carmine's destination on North Astor, distinctly by the florist stand. On any other day, he wouldn't give it a second thought. But the guy, not a man and not a boy or even a fella, but the guy... was looking right at him. Blue eyes unblinking and a flavor-savor mustache twitching with an itch. Not wanting any trouble and knowing Josie was waiting for him in the studio, Carmine decided to ignore it and go on his way.

It began with that threatening glance.

The next step was a letter on his doorstep the next day. The envelope smelled like particularly pungant coffee and tomato sauce, a sign that it'd come from one of the small joints near the Third Ward. Inside was a pink napkin with someone's chicken scratch handwriting seared into it with too much force and no tact. The words were clear as day despite it: "5:00. JUST TALK."

Carmine spent the rest of his breakfast trying to figure out where it came from before he opened it up. There were a lot of places to soup up, get your coffee, maybe a good plate of spaghetti on your lunch break. It was on the second cup of coffee his nose had cleared enough for him to recognize the spices in the tomato sauce. They knew he'd figure it out eventually, with the color of the napkin and the scent. Only one place in town used cinnamon in their sauce: Cody's Diner.

A couple of phone calls to cancel the next day's appointments, and push back his date with Shirley that night by a half-hour, then he went about the rest of his Tuesday. Work in the studio was good and again there was another phone call from Marley about wanting to get Carmine back into the ring; like nothing was out of the ordinary and he was just another schlub trying to make good on that side of Knapp street. But, he noticed the way his breath wasn't the pant of a dancer in artful passion; it was the rhythm of the fighter again. And the soup Maurice had brought them, was tomato. Not from Cody's, he was thankful for a little less coincidence there.

The guy was outside by the florist again. But this time, he didn't glare with a cold, monotone expression. Worse, he was smiling. Carmine didn't realize his hands were balled into fists until he got back home and he thanked the stars that Shirley hadn't run into him.

Back home at three o'clock, Carmine got a shower. He shaved smooth and made sure to use a little more oil than he needed to moisturize. Then, he dressed in dark pants and his maroon sweater. Loose, for mobility. Sharp, for class. When he got into the car he was borrowing from a cousin, he hesitated and watched the world around him. Not suspicious-like, he hoped, but enough to take in the surroundings. Cars behind him? Nah. Anybody shady around the apartment? Not then. 

With a growl from the vehicle that somehow shook him deep down with that unease of the coming storm, Carmine took one last big breath before he went driving. Play it cool, he thought, maybe it's nothing. A misunderstanding; yeah, that's gotta be what it is. And the whole way to Cody's, he thought out what it could be.

The diner itself was as innocuous as an Edward Hopper painting; that mingle of Americana and existential woe. Ideals that Carmine didn't get intellectually, but he felt under the skin as a chill ran down his spine. Emptiness greeted him when he stepped out of the car and took a look around. Windows of a nearby tenement were too quiet, too many curtains drawn. The laundromat next to the diner was also devoid of anyone, even kids hanging around the gumball machine. Feeling the sun bearing down on him, Carmine walked toward Cody's, finding its blinds drawn and the neon sign dim in the window. In another time, on another day, it would be a place to find peace and serenity in solitude after a busy factory job. Here, he felt watched, like the dime novels' description of being in enemy territory.

The curved art deco doors gave at his push and his shoes stepped on the checker pattern beneath him, giving a sharp sound in the empty, window-lined space. Booths were well kept, but old. The counter had stickers on it from various countries, something the manager, not named Cody, had requested all patrons from out of state do. "Put yer mark there!" he'd bellow with a laugh. Carmine had to swallow the tension that he'd be leaving his own mark there without his consent.

Behind the counter and in the kitchen was one lone cook, a stocky young man named Enzo. He spoke more Italian than English, but he was a big strongman. Word was he'd been in wild west stunt shows after coming to America, then an injury to his back had meant he couldn't take another fall. Cody, the actual Cody who opened the diner in 1940, had given him the job slinging burgers and making big batches of spaghetti. And, Carmine remembered, it was Enzo that had come up with the idea for cinnamon in the sauce.

The cook looked up from his work of scrubbing one of the pots in the back, peering out through the porthole out to the front. His weathered features for a twenty-seven year old wrinkled into a grin. "Ciao, Ragusa! Big Ragoo! Boungiorno!" He gave a hearty laugh and Carmine raised a nervous hand in greeting. Then, the cook said gruffly to one of the corners outside of Carmine's vision. "Big Boy is here!" And as the nervous young man took a glance trying to guess who Enzo was talking to, the saloon doors to the kitchen swung open and out came... Cody Mitchell, the second. Another hefty man with height to boot, who liked his sub sandwiches and did not like when people talked about his connections with the outfit out west. His father was a good business man who ran a classy place like Cody's for sixteen years until dying of a heart attack. Junior Mitchell, compared to his father, was a mean mother who had a penchant for making other people do his dirty work.

It was then that Carmine realized what he was there for. The why was not yet clear.

"Carmine!" the bellow came out of Cody's gut like a mixture of a roar and a burp. And it froze Carmine on the spot. Then, the little bit of him that wasn't about to piss fear took control and he grinned that Ragusa charm. "Well, hey, Cody! To what do I owe the pleasure of a sitdown? Ah, this is a sitdown, innit?"

With a wink and a gesture of his big paw out to one of the booths, Cody nodded. "You bet." His Texas twang that came from his mother's side of the family rolled across the air.

Sitting into the booth was not quite like stepping into a grave, but more like into shackles. It was too tight, the leather made a squeak that didn't feel right, and the table was just clean enough to say, 'we know how to clean up the cooked remains of dead things.' That undertone of menace was dripping at the end of every sentence out of Cody while they talked.

"Word `round the campfire's that you've got yourself a pretty good dance studio," the junior Mitchell began, hands sliding down his jeans to his knees. With Carmine's animal instincts up, he noticed a splot of dark, dried brown liquid that was once red on Cody's green button-down shirt. He hoped it was from the beef when he responded. "I do all right," Carmine replied, "we've got a competition coming up, so we've been practicing a lot." Cody gave a smirk and nodded.

Then, he leaned in. His eyes unblinking as the smirk turned into a shark's smile. "Been practicing being other people, too, is what I hear." Carmine tightened his fists to avoid running away. This was about that one time, not even a month ago, that he'd dressed up like hotshot gangster Mr. Big to help his friends out of a jam. It'd just been pretend, there wasn't any way this could really be about that, could it?  
With more nerves than he anticipated coming out of his mouth, Carmine replied, "Oh, you heard about that, huh? Yeah, it was just a little trouble my friends had and so we did what hadda be done, you know?" He played it off as nothing, falling into the laughter of the memory and the taste of victory that day. "It was a good joke, but, man, you shoulda seen that woman run outta there! She looked like she was gonna run all the way to the moon just to get away!" A glance at the man across from him said the joke was understood... in a sardonic sort of way.

"We?" Cody inquired.

It was then that Carmine realized he'd let his Big Ragoo mouth spoil the whole thing.  
He gulped. But the man before him had an ounce of mercy. "Bet you had your fun with that, didn't ya?" The bigger man laughed, patted his stomach. Enzo, in the kitchen, laughed, too. Carmine wasn't sure that the man understood or if the guy was paid to laugh whenever Cody laughed, junior or otherwise.

Whatever the case, he felt the sick unease that comes when you're dealing with a bully that's about to make you do something real stupid. And no matter what happens, you end up going to the Principal's office and getting the worst of it. So, Carmine could only smile and nod and laugh. Yeah, laugh real big, until Cody let him know what the real Mr. Big wanted of him.


End file.
